Lies? No Liesl
by H. L. Hunter
Summary: "Lies. That is what was written on the post-it note at the crime scene. But it didn't say 'lies', it said 'Liesl'." When Sherlock doesn;t return home from a crime scene, John finds himself rushing to St. Bart's on Mycroft's orders. Johnlock. (Challenge fic: written in one hour. Please review!)


**A/N: I was challenged to write this is less than an hour; it was difficult. Please excuse any OOC-ness.**

 **The only prompts I were given were: Proposal, Hurt/Comfort and Lies.**

* * *

Lies. That is what was written on the post-it note at the crime scene. But it didn't say 'lies', it said 'Liesl'.

Sherlock had been called to the scene by Lestrade at 5:30 pm, just before John would have gotten home from the Clinic on a Tuesday – he always finished early on Tuesdays. Sherlock told John he could just head straight home instead of going to the crime scene since he wouldn't be long.

It didn't seem like much of a case, only really a six, but Sherlock had been so bored the past few weeks that he ended up promising John and Mrs Hudson he would take the first case that was offered to him. As it turns out, it was this one.

The crime scene was in an office about twenty minutes from Baker Street by cab. The office was not very big and it belonged to Jakob Weber, an accountant who worked for the Royal Bank of London. When he had arrived, Sherlock had looked over the scene and within minutes he had figured out all he needed to know.

He was a short man, about 5'6'', who had sandy blonde hair and blue eyes. He was in his forties and he was an ex-Navy man. He had a wife and at least two children; one boy and one girl. He was German, evident from his common German surname and the spelling and pronunciation of this first. He had been on the phone at his time of death and he had also been writing in pencil (it was smudged all over his left hand- so he was left handed). The post-it note had the word 'lies' written in pencil on it. Or that's what Lestrade, and Anderson, and Donovan had all thought.

It hadn't said 'lies', Weber was writing the name 'Liesl'. Liesl Weber, his eldest daughter who is also German, who he had been on the phone to at the time of the murder. It had nothing to do with the case at all, he had just been talking to his daughter.

The real criminal was the accountant whose office was just a few doors down. George Michaels, a jealous man who make Weber his tea that morning – like every morning – and laced it with the Hemlock that had been naturally growing in his garden. Hemlock growing in a garden was commonplace in London, but barely anyone knew what it was and often cut it down thinking it was weeds. They had both been in the running for a promotion, but it had been given to Weber.

"Arrest Mr Michaels, he's your murderer," Sherlock said to Lestrade, who quickly began to bark out orders. "You'll have my full report by tomorrow morning." Turning around, Sherlock swept out of the building like he always did with his coat billowing behind him.

By the time Sherlock had waited and rode in the lift, reached the bottom floor and made it through the busy lobby to the front doors of the office, it was already 6:00 pm. John would be home by now, probably sipping tea or updating his blog, as usual. The traffic was horrendous on the roads around the office building, and Sherlock saw no sign of catching a cab, not during rush hour. So, he chose to walk home instead, quickly firing off a text to John to say he would be a little late.

He never made it home.

* * *

John sat in his chair, drinking his second tea of the evening and flicking through the channels on the TV. There didn't seem to be anything on. It was almost 7:00 pm when he next looked at the time. Sherlock should have been home by now, right? He had texted him almost an hour ago saying he would be home late… had another clue been found? Was the case deeper than he had thought?

Picking up his phone, Joh dialled Sherlock's number. It rang. And rang. And rang. Until finally it went to voicemail.

 _"_ _This is the voicemail of Sherlock Holmes; I am unavailable at this moment in time. If this is a client, try again in five minutes. If this is John, I will be back by dinner. If this is Mycroft, go away."_

Dinner was in twenty minutes; Sherlock was taking John to a 'special place' that evening as a treat but John didn't know why. Sherlock had bene very specific about the time John had to be ready for: 6:50 pm.

John tried calling again as soon as he had heard the automated message. Still no reply.

"Damn it, Sherlock, pick up!" John muttered as he heard the message once again. John tossed his phone onto the table.

Mere moments later, the phone rang. John grabbed it quickly and answered. "Sherlock?"

 _"_ _John, go to St Bart's. Now!"_

"Mycroft? What's going on?" John said as he got up from his chair, reaching for his jacket. Two words left him bolting out of the door.

 _"_ It's Sherlock."

* * *

 _He was jumped as he was walking back to Baker Street; a simple mugging gone wrong. A man much taller and stronger than himself pulled a knife on Sherlock and when Sherlock instinctively tried to defend himself, he was stabbed in the stomach. The mugger took everything: his wallet, his phone, and… more. A Good Samaritan saw him in that alley minutes later and called for help before she began to stop the bleeding as best as she could. Don't worry, John. I have London's best surgeons working to save him now. It'll be alright."_

John sat with his head in his hands on one of the most uncomfortable seats he had ever sat on, and he had been in the Army; he knew uncomfortable. Mycroft had explained the extent of what happened hours ago, and the older Holmes was now talking with Inspector Lestrade about apprehending the criminal. No one else sat in the waiting room, thankfully, as this meant no one could see the tear stains on John's cheeks.

Of everything that could have happened to Sherlock, all the times he and John had come close to death, John had never expected Sherlock to be on the brink because of something that seemed so small compared to what they were used to. Wiping away tears that threatened to fall, John breathed a deep sigh before looking up at the ceiling. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, just… something.

"Family of Sherlock Holmes?" A voice called out, snapping John from his thoughts. He stood up as fast as he could and strode over to the nurse by the door.

"How is he?" He asked, but the nurse gave him a look. John did his best to not sigh irritably. "I'm his boyfriend. His brother isn't here right now." The nurse seemed to relax a bit; Mycroft had probably spoken to her about John.

"He's stable, for now." She explained, motioning for John to follow her. He did. "He's still unconscious, but he should wake by morning."

Wasn't it technically morning? It was just past 1:00 am, so yes it technically was. John was taken to room 221 – oh how coincidental… The nurse opened the door for him.

"Oh, Sherlock…"

* * *

Don't you ever do that to me again!"

Waking up had not been pleasant. He was in agony all over and it felt like he had been stabbed in the stomach- wait… he had been. Sherlock's eyes had opened to find the face of John Watson staring at him with a relieved yet angry yet happy look. The doctor threw his arms around the detective the moment he could. Sherlock groaned.

"Jhn…" He mumbled, wincing as he attempted and failed to sit up. John stopped him.

"Lay down, Sherlock. You need to rest." Sherlock did as he was instructed.

"Wh… Where's Myc…"

"Mycroft is outside with the nurse," John told him, his hand gently brushing the curly black hair from Sherlock's eyes. "I'll go and get him for you." Sherlock shook his head, his hand gripping John's tightly to stop him from leaving. Not yet, not when Sherlock had John. A sweet kissed was pressed to Sherlock's forehead, one that caused the Consulting Detective to smile a lopsided grin.

"Love… You."

"I love you too, Sherlock."

* * *

They took it."

Sherlock knew Mycroft didn't need an explanation as to what it was Sherlock was referring to. It was now almost twelve hours after the incident and Sherlock and Mycroft were alone. Joh had gone for coffee that he desperately needed.

"I know they did, William," Mycroft replied, his voice different from his usual stern tone. It suddenly seemed as if Mycroft was speaking to a young child who was upset. There wasn't much of a difference.

"It was Mummy's… I was going to give it to him…"

"William," Mycroft reached for his brother's hand, snapping the younger brother from his mind, "I promise I'll find it, okay? You have my word." Sherlock nodded a rather small and timid nod, just as John arrived with his coffee. He wasn't alone this time.

"Love, there's someone here who said she wants to speak to you," John said to Sherlock, moving out of the way to let a young lady of around twenty-one enter the room. Blonde hair, blue eyes, 5'6'', a pleated grey dress with little heels and a black cardigan (had the morning off, work later that afternoon). Even in his condition, Sherlock was still able to deduce. Mycroft took his leave, but not before saying a quick thank you to the lady who soon took one of the seats next to Sherlock's bed.

"Mr Holmes," The woman began, and Sherlock could instantly detect a hint of German in her voice. "I'm Liesl Weber, I was the one who found you in the alley."

"Liesl Weber… I put your father's murderer in prison yesterday." Sherlock replied, and the lady nodded with a kind smile.

"I guess good will came back to you." Miss Weber told him, "Thank you, for what you did."

"Thank you, Miss Weber!" John spoke up, reaching out to place a hand on her shoulder. "He wouldn't be here without you." Miss Weber simply smiled once more and moved to stand, saying something about needing to get to Surrey soon. Before she left, however, her hand flew to her pocket.

"Oh, I found this on the ground in the alley. I figured it was yours." She said, pulling a small, blue velvet box out of her pocket and placed it on the table by Sherlock. She left with a sweet goodbye. Sherlock grabbed the box and opened it, an almost exaggerated sigh of relief escaping him.

"What is it?" John asked, dumbly. He could tell what it was. Sherlock handed the open box to him, and inside sat a ring.

"I was going to give it to you at dinner. Those plans seemed to go out the window-" Sherlock was silenced by a kiss.

When Mycroft found them both later, John was curled up next to Sherlock on the bed with his left arm around the detective's middle protectively. The engagement ring shone brightly in the light.


End file.
